


be still my foolish heart (i'm almost me again)

by Butterfly



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Quentin Coldwater Lives, M/M, Quentin Coldwater Is Alive, set vaguely post s4 with obvious difference of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 08:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19884679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: Quentin's friends throw him a birthday party, but what he really wants is a chance to be alone with Eliot.For birthday sex challenge in honor of Quentin's 27th birthday.





	be still my foolish heart (i'm almost me again)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Hozier's song "Almost (Sweet Music)".
> 
> Set in a nebulous post-s4 timeline where Quentin lives and the group has decided to go back to Brakebills and actually graduate.

Quentin stares at the impossible crowd crammed into the Cottage and reminds himself that he loves his friends, really, he does.

“Happy birthday!” Margo yells in his ear. Julia gives him a somewhat queasy smile and a sort of half-shrug and he thinks he can possibly picture what had gotten them here. To this. A 'surprise' birthday party.

He does feel infinitely grateful El had grabbed him in the kitchen this morning and warned him. It means Quentin had some time to emotionally prepare.

Not enough, but better than nothing.

“I don't think I know most of these people,” he says, mildly enough.

“Don't be silly,” Margo says. She glances over the room. “Oh. Yeah, actually, you might not.”

“It's a good chance to meet new people?” Julia suggests. He raises his eyebrows. “Or not? Maybe it's not.”

“You need a drink,” Margo decides and that- yeah, he does. Also, Eliot is the one _making_ the drinks, so that'll be helpful, too. So Quentin lets Margo tug him through the sea of sweaty humanity, which parts for her like she's Moses, naturally, until they are tucked up at the bar. El gives him a sympathetic smile and hands him an already-prepared cocktail.

Quentin gulps it down, which earns him disapproving looks from _both_ El and Margo.

He wonders if El will let him hide behind the bar. Probably not? It wouldn't hurt to ask.

“Josh made you a cake,” Eliot says, and Margo glares at him. “What? You want him to actually stick around long enough to eat it, don't you?”

“Quentin has far too much class to bail on his own party,” Margo says. Then she seems to process her own words, and she makes a face. “Ugh, Coldwater? Don't fucking bail on your own party.”

“No promises,” he mutters, and he takes the new cocktail El hands him. He drinks this one more slowly. Margo gives him another warning glare, and then takes off into the swaying crush of people, muttering something about the music. Quentin lets himself collapse sideways onto the bar, looking up at Eliot appealingly. “Why didn't you talk them out of this?”

Eliot smiles at him, and touches him on the cheek softly, the tentative way he's taken to doing since- since they got him back. “Honestly, it was funny to watch Bambi and Julia wind each other up to more and more ridiculous heights? There are fireworks later, on the lawn.”

“And how many of the people here are actually my friends? Or even, like, people I know?”

The lines around Eliot's eyes crinkle up and Quentin takes a mental snapshot of his face, puts it away with all his other memories of Eliot, precious and safe. “Kady and Alice are both around. Somewhere. Penny's probably already found Julia. And there's always Todd. Plus, well. There's me.”

“There is you,” Quentin says, impossibly fond. He averts his eyes, says, wistfully, “We missed your birthday.”

While El'd been-

-not himself.

“And what would you have done for my birthday?” El asks, leaning an elbow against the bar so that he can create almost a bubble of privacy for them, and he is definitely straight-up ignoring someone asking him to make a drink for them, and that kinda makes Quentin's cheeks go warm. “I mean, if we pretend for a moment Bambi wouldn't have thrown a big party.”

Quentin's chest gets tight as he remembers – dozens of low-key but happy birthday dinners in Fillory. Usually followed by less low-key but still very happy birthday sex. Each of the individual memories is hazy, but they add up to a lot.

He can't say that out loud to El.

“Probably just a dinner.” The words feel like they're bubbling out of him without his permission. “Um. One of those pies.” Quentin's one speciality, baking-wise. He burned or ruined most everything, but he could make pies. “With that- that fruit we can't get on Earth.”

“Shiola pie,” Eliot says, and he sounds maybe wistful, too. Maybe. “What did that taste like? Something between strawberry and pear, right?”

“Something like that,” Quentin agrees.

“Quentin.” Eliot's voice drops a little, going more grave and serious. But whatever he's thinking of saying gets interrupted when Quentin feels someone yank him up by the hand and, oh, it's Alice and she is-

“Happy birthday!” she crows, enthused and eyes bright, and so fucking drunk already, how many did she have before he got here? “Dance with me!”

Quentin stares at her a moment, ventures, “No, thanks?” because the idea of actually pushing his body into the dancing mob genuinely makes him want to throw up. He pats her hand. Says, “You look nice.”

She does. She's not in one of those pantsuits she's taken to wearing for her work at the Library, but she's also not in any of those perky, busty dresses she used to live in, practically. She's just in- like, comfortable pants and a sleeveless top, and she seems cozy in a way that he's never really seen her look before.

“I didn't bring my boyfriend,” she mourns, loudly. “I thought it would be weird. Would it have been weird?”

Not any weirder than having this conversation, so, “You can always call him and invite him now,” Quentin says, instead. He pats her hand again, then takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face the dance floor.

When he turns back to the bar, El is laughing. And that's- it lights up his face and he just looks so- so fucking _himself_ , with a vest on and behind the bar and- and-

Anyway, it's Quentin's birthday.

So he leans in and puts his hand on El's wrist and asks, in a conspiratorial voice, “Will you protect me from Margo's wrath?”

“Are you asking me to cover for you while you skip your own party?” Eliot matches his low, confiding tone.

With a burst of courage, Quentin shakes his head. “I'm asking you to skip out with me.” He rubs his thumb over Eliot's pulse-point and his meaning is- is pretty clear, he thinks. He just has to find out now whether or not Eliot maybe- _maybe_.

They haven't- they haven't talked about whether Eliot's words in the park meant anything. Anything more than 'hey it's really me', anyway. They haven't talked about... about Alice and Quentin's short-lived revival of a relationship or about-

“Okay,” Eliot says, soft. “Where do you want to go?”

_Anywhere with you._

“Outside, maybe? Just away from all the people,” Quentin says. “By- it's getting late, so there's probably no one out there. So- maybe we could-” The suggestion is sappy and stupid and he almost cringes saying it. “-go smoke on the Brakebills sign? Wait for the fireworks?”

He's technically the one leading, since his hand is still around El's wrist, but he feels like he's being led – tugged and pulled by the need to actually _be alone_ with Eliot, because it feels like- like Margo or Julia or someone else is always there, too. And he loves them, but-

But.

“Do you have cigarettes?” Eliot asks, once they're out there and he's boosted himself up onto the sign. “Because I actually don't.”

Quentin taps one out of a mostly-full pack, lights it and hands it up to El before, more clumsily, climbing up on the sign himself. “I still remember how shocked I was. Coming here the first time.”

“Blown away by my beauty and charm,” Eliot says, slightly sardonic and self-mocking.

“I was. Actually,” Quentin says, drawing his legs under himself. He's not sure where he's getting all this bravery tonight. He only had two drinks. “I'd never seen anyone like you before. I stumbled out of my- my boring life, and I fell into this world of- of magic and wonder. And-” He looks down at Eliot's shoes, which perfectly match his vest. Sighs. “And, you know. Most of the magic ended up being pretty disappointing in the end but. But you didn't.”

“Didn't I?” Eliot asks, quietly.

Quentin glances over and- he's struck by Eliot's profile, how strong and compelling it is. Smoke curls up from the cigarette held loosely between two fingers and there's a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.

“I don't have any regrets, El,” Quentin says. “Not about- not about that.” Not about _them_. Just that he hadn't been able to have it again. And, well. The world is full of possibilities. And it's his birthday.

“Sometimes, I feel like all I have are regrets,” El says, and it makes Quentin's heart squeeze in his chest. “I'm such a fucking coward.”

He wants to say ' _you aren't_ ' but... the way Eliot says that.

“What about?” he asks, instead, holds his hand out for the cigarette. El takes another quick drag and then gives it over and his fingers brush against Quentin's, just for a second. “You've always seemed pretty brave to- to me.”

Eliot pulls up one of his long, long legs, rests his chin on his knee and stares out across the lawn. He looks very debonair and elegant in his brooding. Lord Byron would be proud, probably, of El's dedication to The Aesthetic.

“I'm glad you don't flinch anymore when I touch you,” Eliot says and- okay, they're going there. Sure, Quentin can go there. “You do still- um. Startle a bit. If you enter a room and you don't already know I'm there.”

“That's not your fault, El,” Quentin says. And he's said it before but he figures it'll probably take a few more times until Eliot believes him.

“Do you ever feel like- like when you trace whatever your- your current problems are, they go back to some huge fuck-up you made that will ruin everything you touch for the rest of your life?” Eliot asks. Quentin gives him back the cigarette. He clearly needs it more.

“All the fucking time,” he says. “That's pretty much how my brain works all the fucking time.”

“Well, it sucks,” Eliot says, succinctly.

“Mmhmm.” Quentin watches as Eliot smokes – his lips pursing at the inhale, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes the smoke in, the way his whole body relaxes during the exhale. “My brain is a cage of angry hamsters that blame me for everything. Pretty much always. So, you know. If you want to talk about your own angry hamsters, I can listen.”

“There was something I wanted to tell you,” Eliot says, then stops.

He takes another long drag of the cigarette.

“Yeah?” Quentin prompts. “What did you want to tell me?” His heart has started beating a little more quickly, maybe.

“When I got back.” Eliot pauses again. He leans back onto one elbow and squints up at the darkening sky. “You and Alice were together again.”

“For like five seconds, yeah,” Quentin agrees, trying to match Eliot's posture but- he feels less like a graceful nobleman and more like a cat about to fall off the back of a chair. “Why would-” he tries not to sound too hopeful “-why would that stop you? From telling me something?”

“I have a lot of regrets,” Eliot says, his voice distant. “But. The biggest one. My biggest regret.”

And he fucking stops talking. _Again_.

Eliot's eyes cut over in his direction, and they're- sad, in the way that Eliot's been sad a lot since he got back. Like he figures something got broken that can't be fixed, which is-

“Um, I don't know if I mentioned this,” Quentin says. “It hasn't come up. It's not- you know. Important, really. But I know my discipline now.”

“Oh?” Eliot perks up. He tries to hand the cigarette back to Quentin, then stubs it out when Quentin shakes his head. “What is it? How'd you find out?” He seems- genuinely excited and pleased, which makes something get warm and soft in Quentin's chest.

“Repair of small objects,” Quentin says, and Eliot tilts his head, like a curious beautiful bird. “So, you know. It's not that significant. In the grand scheme of things. But I could- uh. I could fix, like. A mug. Or a watch. Or-” He reaches out and touches Eliot's cheek with shaky fingers. “Um. Maybe someone's heart? If they wanted?”

It is.

It's the cheesiest thing he's ever said in his life, probably.

It's worth it for how it makes El's eyes light up.

“Did you practice that line?” Eliot asks, but he sounds delighted beyond belief and then- before Quentin can get a chance to defend his impromptu romance skills, Eliot grabs his wrist and yanks him closer, and _kisses_ him and-

It's been _forever_ since Eliot kissed him.

Quentin closes his eyes and melts into the feeling. Eliot is still holding his wrist, and Quentin's pulse must be hammering under his fingers because he feels like his heart is beating too fast for him to keep track of it. Eliot doesn't shave as frequently, these days, and there's a slight rub of stubble as they kiss. It's- it scrapes but that's nice, too, because it keeps reminding him that he's kissing _El_ , and kissing El is the best thing his mouth has ever gotten to do. One of the best things.

His hip is resting against El's stomach and he worries, a little, about that gut wound but- but, he reminds himself sternly, it's been months and Eliot is fine now, probably. His other hand flails around for a bit, then finally manages to land on Eliot's shoulder and hold on.

Eliot tugs him harder, right into his lap, and Quentin curls his captured hand into a fist, feeling overwhelmed and helpless, _willing_ Eliot not to let him go. Quentin shifts, straddles Eliot's hips, and- lets out a huff of relief against El's mouth when he feels the long heavy line of El's dick, already starting to harden.

Getting up to go find a room seems- seems like it would take way too much time. He just wants to- to sit here and kiss El and maybe rub up against him until they both come like they're teenagers necking at one of those stupid parties Julia used to drag him to and he'd always judged those couples, but maybe- maybe they had the right idea all along.

Quentin breaks out of the kiss with a gasp, presses his mouth against El's neck, tucked in the curve of his jaw. “I missed this so much.” He barely recognizes his own voice, broken and hoarse. “God, _El_. I missed you so much.” He can feel El's hand tighten around his wrist and he goes sorta- limp, almost, in response.

It's like a dance where he only half-remembers the steps.

“We shouldn't do this here,” Eliot says, but there's no force in his voice.

Quentin presses another kiss against his skin.

“But, ah- I don't see anyone around,” El continues, and his other hand is already working at the buttons on Quentin's shirt.

“They're probably at the party,” Quentin offers, nuzzling against Eliot. He rocks his hips forward against El's, sighs with satisfaction. It's been so long. And they fucked outside all the time in Fillory, especially before Teddy was born and then again after Teddy went off on his own adventures. “I hear the birthday boy is, like, the most popular guy at school.”

Eliot laughs, and it's the best sound Quentin has heard in a while.

“You have the prettiest nipples,” Eliot says, and he touches them like he's remembering things, too. “Have you given any more thought to-”

“I'm not getting my nipples pierced, El,” Quentin says, blushing and smiling and pressing back into Eliot's fingers. “I said 'no', what, how many times over the years? Like a dozen.”

“No more than five or six, I'm sure.” Eliot's hand continues down, rubbing over the line of hair, teasing a knuckles around his belly button. His hand drops, pushes heavy against Quentin's dick through his pants. “You sure you don't wanna, I don't know, go on a date or something before we jump straight to handjobs?”

“We never went on any dates before and that turned out fine,” Quentin says. Though he might be at least partly saying that because of how desperately he wants El's hand on his dick. Eliot seems willing to go with it anyway, flicking open the button on Quentin's pants. He has to let go of his grip on Quentin's wrist, but it's so he can brace his arm around Quentin's back so- that's fine.

He arches up in Eliot's lap, anxious and needy.

Eliot presses his fingers against Quentin's lips and- yes. Quentin opens up, sucks them in, licks to get them messy and wet. Eliot watches his mouth, fucks in and out with his fingers. And Quentin- he wants El to touch his dick, but he'd missed this too, wanted this too.

Quentin gasps unsteadily when Eliot pulls his fingers out, reaches down and takes Quentin's cock in hand. “Yours too?” Quentin manages. “El, yours too.”

Eliot takes his hand away, gets a knuckle under Quentin's chin, tilts his head up for a kiss. “You get it out then,” he says. “I'll keep watch.” And that sounds good, too, getting to touch Eliot, so Quentin nods eagerly.

He doesn't bother trying to unbutton El's vest or shirt, goes straight for his pants, fumbling at the buttons until he has enough room to pull out El's dick, press it up again his own. It's been so long. He'd forgotten how _big_ Eliot is and he wants his mouth around it but-

Handjobs.

And he thinks it's maybe not urgent? He thinks- from how El is acting, he's pretty sure this won't be his only shot. Still, just to check, he whispers, “Um, can I suck your dick in the morning?”

“I think that can be arranged.” Eliot tousles his hair, then touches it again, more carefully. “Did I tell you yet how glad I am you're growing this back out? I miss your little lion's mane.”

“You are the _only person_ who thinks it looks like that. You know that, right?” Quentin licks impatiently at his own palm, wraps his hand around his and El's dicks, and slides forward. It takes him a little while to get into a rhythm; his head remembers what to do but his fingers feel awkward and clumsy. No fucking muscle memory for this anymore, apparently.

“Yeah, well, I'm used to being the only one around with an artist's eye,” Eliot says, loftily, so Quentin twists his thumb down around the head of El's dick, to make him groan and press kisses to the top of Quentin's head. Eliot's hands are wide on his back now, like he's trying to cover as much territory as possible.

Quentin gets it.

He just- he just wants to touch every part of El, all at once and also forever. He wants to- to kiss Eliot's elbows and lick the back of his knees and press his finger against the cleft in El's chin.

It doesn't take long for him to come. He tries not to be embarrassed about it.

Anyway, El is still hard, so Quentin tugs at him, swipes his thumb over the slit, asks, “Or now? I could blow you now?”

“You won't need to,” Eliot says, ruefully, petting at Quentin through his shirt. “I'm- I'm really fucking close, baby.”

One of Eliot's hands slides up to catch the back of Quentin's neck, so he tilts his head up obligingly, and Eliot kisses and kisses him, deep and wet and messy, while Quentin's hands re-learn El's dick and his balls and all the soft skin of his thighs and stomach.

El bites down on Quentin's lip when he orgasms, and his come gets all over Quentin's fingers.

Probably wrecks their shirts and pants.

Definitely worth it. Though El might not agree.

“Manual or magical clean-up,” Eliot asks, and he's scritching lightly through Quentin's hair, and it's fond and familiar, something El had always liked to do, after.

“Do you want us to go back to the party?” Quentin asks.

“Yeah, Bambi will kill me if we don't.” He says it with a complete lack of concern. “I think she wants to force everyone to sing the birthday song to you.”

“Are you _sure_ you want us to go back?” But then Quentin sighs, because Margo _had_ been really excited earlier. “Okay, magic, then. I'm not going to talk to Margo with my mouth smelling like your spunk. She would make fun of me for years, probably.”

“Probably,” Eliot agrees. He does a set of tuts, and their hands and dicks are clean and dry, though Quentin thinks he can see a faint staining left behind on their clothes. Eliot reaches over and does up Quentin's pants and shirt, then gets to work on his own. “There. Like nothing happened. Except your hair's still a mess. You want me to fix that, too?”

Quentin reaches up, pats at his hair to smooth it back. “It's okay. Um. El, this wasn't just a birthday- a birthday thing, right?” He tries not to sound too anxious about it. He's a grown man. He can handle it if- if El turns him down again.

“I never did tell you what my biggest regret was, did I?” Eliot touches his cheek, softly, and he looks somewhere around Quentin's chin, not at his eyes. “It was- it was when we got back from the mosaic. You asked if I wanted to give us a shot. And I-”

“Proof of concept,” Quentin says. The relief hits him like a baseball bat, and he feels like he's back in that park again, listening to the Monster and realizing _Eliot_ was the one talking. He thinks his mouth might be trembling. “I couldn't assume that's- that's what you meant by it. I didn't want to- um. Get my hopes up. Or, uh, push you.”

“I meant it.” Eliot pulls him in for another kiss, quick and shallow this time. “I was scared.” He brushes his mouth against Q's nose. “So I pushed you away.” And against his forehead. “And I have done nothing but regret it for months and months.” Along the side of his jaw, and the corner of his mouth, and then another kiss square on the lips.

They make out for... a while, and Eliot completely messes Quentin's hair up again.

Margo is _definitely_ going to make fun of him.

He's kinda looking forward to it.


End file.
